


The Artist and The Portrait

by honeybee592



Series: OTP: You're the boss [12]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 22:52:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4853651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybee592/pseuds/honeybee592
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grace Trevelyan needs an official portrait. She wants something... a little less official.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Artist and The Portrait

**Author's Note:**

> I'm 99% sure I haven't posted this either on AO3 or Tumblr...

The Inquisitor needed an official portrait. Something that could be sent throughout Ferelden and Orlais. Such an image would cement the Inquisition in the the minds of nobles and common folk alike, remind them of the cause.

Or so Josephine said. Grace wasn’t convinced. The artist chosen to paint her portrait and make the woodcuts had barely said three words to Grace since arriving at Skyhold. And she _scowled_ , squinting at Grace the whole time. She had a name but it was something Antivan that Grace tried to pronounce once but failed to get right. Grace just called her ‘The Artist’.

But The Artist turned out to be a quite lovely woman, once Grace got past the spiky exterior. On the second day of sitting, one of Grace’s cats had jumped onto the table where the Artist’s paints lay and in the proceeding chase had left yellow and green footprints all over the bed sheets and floor. Grace apologised a thousand times. The pursed lips turned up, eyes twinkling.

“You like cats?” The Artist had asked.

“Oh yes!” Grace had replied, clutching a fluffy cat to her chest. Once she’d dumped him in the stairwell and returned to her seat the Artist spoke up again.

“Tell me about them.”

And Grace had talked the rest of the day away.

*

Grace was allowed the first look at the finished piece. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach as she rounded the canvas to see. She gasped, stared at the painted version of herself then at the Artist.

“You savour your privacy, no?” The Artist asked. Grace nodded. “I thought as much. This woman is an ideal. See? I have smoothed her skin and made her ears dainty. Her nose isn’t nearly so obvious and her smile hides that crooked tooth. She looks enough like you to appease your advisors yet is enough of a stranger to allow you to pass through villages and towns with relative anonymity.”

All Grace could manage was a whispered, heartfelt thank you.

*

The Artist stayed another week to supervise the duplicate portraits and make the wood cut. Josephine had organised a big party--a public reveal of the portrait. Grace gritted her teeth at the news and wondered if she could fake another ‘flu. But she had a plan that she couldn’t be ‘sick’ for. She found The Artist in her studio and after knocking lightly on the door, went in.

“Will you be planning on staying for the big reveal? Josephine--Lady Montilyet has some big party planned and I thought that since you were--are, the artist, you would… stay?” Grace cringed, armpits prickling with sweat. The Artist gave Grace that inscrutable stare, making her feel even worse.

Grace continued her bumbling. “I was hoping that maybe you’d be able to paint another portrait. Of me. Something smaller, not a woodcut, nothing that will be reproduced. Something for…” Why couldn’t she just _ask_? She gave what she hoped was a smile but from the strain of her lips she knew it was a grimace.

“You want a portrait for your lover? Something tasteful?” she hummed, tapping her chin, eyeing Grace up and down. “Yes, I can see it now. A nude. Baring yourself. But demure.”

Grace nodded enthusiastically.

They arranged to meet in Grace’s quarters after breakfast the next morning.

Grace closed her eyes as she shed her gown. She stood naked and vulnerable on the bear skin rug, feeling utterly unsexy as The Artist stood back and frowned.

“Sit.” The Artist pointed at the rug. “Position yourself how you’d like to be seen by your lover.”

Grace sat, drawing her legs up and tucking her arms around her knees. The Artist tisked and glided over to move Grace about like she was a doll. Once she had her in position, the Artist stepped back and nodded once before returning to her canvas.

Why had she thought this was a good idea? She’d just wanted something for Bull. Something he could take with him when he went on journeys without her. A reminder of her. They each had their half of the dragon’s tooth. Surely that should be enough? He knew exactly what Grace looked like with her clothes off. Bull didn’t need any scandalous pictures of the Inquisitor looking like some floozy from a cheap periodical.

She fisted her hands and clenched her jaw. The Artist frowned.

“Tell me about your lover,” she said.

Grace startled before her lips eased into a soft smile. Iron Bull. Her lover. Where would she start? “He’s… wonderful. He’s everything you could ever dream of. I don’t have to pretend around him. I’m just me. He doesn’t see me as a leader or a hero or the Inquisitor. I can... _be_.” She continued her proclamations of devotion. How he cared for her, fought for her, carved out time just for the two them. His obsession of dragons. His doting of his Chargers.

“You must love him very much.”

“I do.” Grace sighed, thinking about Bull.

“I can tell.” The Artist looked down her nose, pointed her brush at Grace. “Your areola have darkened and your nipples are engorged.”

A hot prickle of embarrassment rippled over Grace’s skin. She bit her lip and went to cover herself.

“No! Stay exactly like that. Yes, put your arm back there. Look at your bed and think of your man. Think about how he makes you _feel_. I can capture your image, but this work needs your _heart._ ”

Grace did as she was told, stared at the bed and tried to pretend that she had sent word to Bull and was waiting for him naked. A special surprise. She pictured the look on his face when he walked up the steps, that sly grin. The sparkle in his eye. The way he straightened his back. When she gave herself to Bull, presented herself, that was how she told him she needed something extra special from him. She glanced at the chest of drawers that held their collection of feathers and ribbons, thread and bells. She bit her lip to suppress her smile but the heat on her face told her she’s broken into a blush.

She didn’t notice that faint smile from the Artist.

“Your man. The qunari.” The Artist asked after a long silence.

Grace nodded.

“Brave choice.”

Grace frowned. “He’s not a savage.”

“No. I can see that. But not everyone can. You put yourself first by choosing him. You, the Inquisitor. A woman with power. A woman courting power. Such a dalliance could cause scandal. Irreparable damage to the Inquisition. But you said ‘to the void with what others think’ and followed your heart. You are brave. Braver than you think.”

“That’s what Bull says,” Grace mumbled.

“Wise man. Heed his words.” She eyed the canvas. “Done.”

“Already?”

“Capturing your heart--your true self--is a simple task. Not like official portraits where I must paint what the sitter _wants_ there to be. Also, this canvas is very small.”

Grace sat up, pulling her robe back on. She wrapped her arms around her chest and padded over to the Artist.

“May I look?”

The Artist stepped back with a bow and a smirk. Grace’s heart beat hard as she peeked at the picture.

“Oh, my…” Her heart skipped a beat, eyes wide as she stared at herself. She looked just how she imagined she would.

Candlelight cast her in golden glow, the play of shadow and light accentuating her figure; especially her breasts--Bull’s favourite. Her hair falling loose from its tie, framing her face just so. Bright eyes, soft smile. She must have looked awfully dreamy as she talked about him to The Artist.

Grace turned to The Artist but to her surprise, she’d already left.

“Thank you,” she whispered, turning back to admire the painting.

*

Grace pulled herself away from the boring conversation with a noble she’d forgotten the name of as soon as she’d heard it and gulped down the last of her wine. Her dress itched--some loose thread scratching her back in a place she couldn’t reach. Pearls hung heavy around her neck but she dare not slouch--Vivienne had already told her off once this evening.

As she walked through the crowd she hoped no eager servant would top up her drink. She didn’t need another, her head already fuzzy. She’d had enough and was on the lookout for her Iron Bull.

He should be easy to spot, a massive horned qunari. But he wasn’t with the Chargers, all dressed up and on their best behaviour. As she wandered, she accepted praise and gave thanks to those who’d come to see the big reveal. Her speech introducing the Artist and her work had gone quite well, she thought. Polite laughter in the right places, a round of applause at the end. Only now Grace was terribly tired and in need of escape.

She finally found him looming over a poor servant holding a near-empty bowl. Once he a handful of candied nuts in each hand, he waved the servant away with garbled thanks. Grace glanced around, made sure no one was looking at them and leaned against his arm.

“Do you think we can retire upstairs? I have something for you.” She had to stand on tiptoes to reach his ear.

Bull stood up straight, eyed the party with his serious spy face. He ate the nuts in three quick mouthfuls, chugged down a glass of wine from a passing servant and lead Grace away.

*

The easel stood in the same place as it had all week, the canvas draped in one of the yellow scarves Bull and Grace liked to use.

“You stand here.” She positioned him in front of the canvas and went and stood opposite. She bit her lip, stomach twisting, not knowing what he would think but wanting to see his reaction.

Bull looked from the covered painting to Grace. She nodded, told him to take the cloth off.

He took his time, toying with the edge of the cloth, teasing her, keeping her on edge; just like he did in bed. Finally he lifted the cloth away. Grace couldn’t read his expression, couldn’t divine what he thought. He looked… blank.

Oh no. This was a stupid idea. A waste of time. He didn’t like it any more than he liked the official portrait. Grace cringed at her mistake, tears prickling her eyes when--

\--when Bull whisked her up in his arms, kissed her hard and walked her over to the rug. He set her down and eased her out of her dress. He didn’t speak and Grace dared not break the silence.

Once she was naked, Bull stepped back behind the canvas.

“Sit. Like this. I want to see the real thing.” He spoke with a rasp to his voice, a catch that told Grace she’d made him very happy indeed.

She sat, wiggled to get comfortable, tried to remember how she’d positioned her arms and legs. She smiled up at Bull. He glanced between the painting and her.

“Even better,” he muttered, before taking off his suit.

He ambled up to Grace, gaze roving over her body. She looked up at him, pleasure sparking through her as she took in the man towering above her. The man she loved so much. The man who loved _her_ so much. He knelt before her, lowering her onto her back, peppering her with kisses, large hands exploring her body, drawing out gasps and sighs.

“Thank you, Kadan,” he whispered. “Thank you.”


End file.
